Swimming in Circles
by PertPeeve
Summary: One-word prompts that all revolve around the same set of events: Lance's unexpected kidnapping, his time as an unwilling lab rat, his rescue, and his-admittedly slow and maybe not altogether complete or happy-recovery. Chapters will frequently jump around in time and word length will vary from several hundred to several thousand, depending.
1. Sound

**1\. SOUND**

It was no secret that Lance liked sound. Liked _noise_. He liked the reassuring cacophonous din of life, from family gatherings to crowded malls to roller coaster screams to furious summer storms. He liked the soul-lifting powers of good music, the louder the better—getting lost in a pulsing crowd of cheering and singing and earth-shaking bass. He liked making sound, because silence was awkward and cold and promoted an environment that cultivated altogether too much _thinking_.

Lance couldn't be trusted to think in silence.

It was safe to say that Lance _needed_ sound.

When the quiet crept in, his mind felt a forceful need to compensate. You could ignore a small niggling voice with enough distraction…

 _How long has it been?_

"Doesn't matter. They're coming. Just gotta hang on."

Talking to himself still counted. Right? It was real noise instead of subconscious noise. There was nothing weird about talking to yourself to shut yourself up. The vibrations of sound were reassuring, right there in his own throat, even if his voice was swallowed up by the dead air around him as soon as it was expelled.

It still worked for a little while. Maybe a day or two. Maybe a few hours.

 _But really, how long has it been?_

"How should I know? Do you see a clock?"

 _Who are you talking to?_

Who _could_ he talk to? His captors hadn't come yet. He had a floor and a ceiling and four bare walls and something like a crease in one corner that might be a door, but he couldn't remember how he'd gotten inside. He only knew he was suffocating in the silence.

There was nothing. No ambience. No faucet dripping or planes flying or birds chirping or clocks ticking.

He couldn't even hear his own heart, as much as he could feel it drumming.

 _It's been a long time._

"I know…"

He eventually stopped talking to himself aloud. Occasionally his growling stomach provided a weird mix of discomfort and reassurance that he was still existing somewhere. His dreams were on mute; flashing images that sometimes slipped out into reality. Colours that once meant something. Voices he was starting to forget.

 _They're not coming for you._

"Shut up."

 _And why would they bother? What do you bring to the team that can't easily be replaced? You're nothing but background noise._

The low growl may have been coming from his throat, and it may actually have been a whimpering whine.

 _They've left you._

"No!"

 _They're not coming._

Lance curled up next to the maybe-door. If his clothes rustled on the floor, he didn't hear them.

 _You're alone._

Maybe he was. How could he know?

He sighed and allowed the silence to consume him.


	2. Mile

**2\. MILE**

Sometimes there were tests.

No, not tests. If he were being tested there might have been a grade or a reward. He might have actually known _why_ he was being tested. There might have been an end goal, or at the very least, if it were a test, there might have been meaning and a personal drive to succeed.

These were experiments, and Lance never fully understood the point.

He only knew he had a mile to go before he could rest.

The first time, he'd thought that by some miracle he'd been freed; that his captors had grown bored and tossed him outside. He hadn't remembered a jungle quite like that, but then his memories surrounding how he'd ended up in his sarcophagus of a cell were hazy after long days of silence and neglect.

His body was weak, but his hopes were high, so he'd pressed on through the thick undergrowth, trying to ignore the shrieks and hoots of unknown creatures or the sick truth that he had no idea where he was going, or how he would ever possibly find a means of contacting his friends.

 _Just keep moving. Just do_ something _._

A mile, thereabouts, he figured. It hadn't been long, as much as he was panting in the humidity and feeling the sting from a dozen cuts and scrapes and bug bites.

That's when he'd realized the thin band encircling his throat had a purpose. Following a high tone, the world went a hazy purple around the edges and he'd dropped.

He woke back in his cell some undetermined amount of time later, shivering from venom and dehydration and a hopeless anguish.

The tests didn't happen daily. Small blessings. He didn't think he'd have survived that.

They gave him just enough time to recover. Just enough to function. Just enough water, just enough food to keep him alive until the next mile.

The next was some arctic hellscape.

Lance didn't deal well with the cold.

And this was cold like he'd never felt before. Blistering, sheering, slicing winds attacked him from all angles, and under his feet was snow that felt unendingly deep. He was still only dressed in the simple light shirt and pants he'd woken in—how long ago now _? How long? Fuck!_ —and no shoes to speak of.

He had to move. Moving would keep him alive, at least for a little while.

At first the cold was painful. Then it was numbing. And only when he began to feel hot did he realize that something was very, very wrong.

Finishing that mile had been grueling, but euphoric by the end. It wasn't so bad. He was warm and dizzy and so, so tired. He didn't even need the collar to drift into welcoming unconsciousness…

But the pain hit him upon waking. His body was blistered and split and oozing from frostbite. He knew at least a few of his blackened toes were probably not going to make it.

 _Oh god, will they fall off? Will I have to_ pull _them off? Shit shit shit shit—_

It was messed up, but he feared the mile as much as he _needed_ it. It was a brief escape from the silence… and an unknown destination. And though his body was drained and sore and failing, he thought, maybe, maybe the next time he really could find a way out. Maybe they… maybe his team would find _him_.

Next was a desert. Severe burns and heat-stroke-induced hallucinations.

Then a cave. Complete darkness. No sense of when his next hesitant step would send him spiraling down into an abyss. When the collar took him at the end, he was sure he'd fallen to his death.

Mountain. Cold again. Broken limbs. He could barely hold himself. He couldn't hold himself.

The ocean.

Oh god, the ocean.

It reminded him of Blue, but he was alone here. He swam, and swam. He was a strong swimmer.

He used to be a strong swimmer.

He had no energy, but if he faltered he'd drown.

At the end of the mile that happened anyway.

He could imagine them, sort of, his captors, somewhere just out of reach—maybe above, maybe concealed behind a veil—watching him. Judging him. Making notes…

 _Subject does not thrive in cold climates. Subject cannot see in the dark. Subject cannot breathe underwater._

 _Suggest increase to two miles._


	3. Carry

**3\. CARRY**

The constant dimming of the overhead lights made navigation difficult, and the high-pitched drone of an alarm wasn't helping either, but Keith had a small window of opportunity and a vague idea of where he needed to be, and nothing was about to stop him now.

"Take a right."

Pidge's voice was just audible through Keith's helmet amidst the din of panic all around him. He hit the next hall and came crashing into three Sainisins. These weren't armed, but that didn't stop them from coming at him with multiple limbs and long powerful fingers, prepared to choke and break and tear.

Keith ducked left, using his smaller size to roll free and take them from behind.

"Your _other_ right, Keith."

He grunted, swinging his bayard back in a sweeping arc, taking the deranged scientists out at the knees.

He didn't wait. Their pained screeching was enough for now to tell him they wouldn't follow.

The next corridor was long and sterile and lined with numerous small doors.

"Which room, Pidge?"

There were no windows and no handles. Sainisin security was similar to Galran in that it was heavily dependent on genetics. He had to assume the panels next to each door required DNA identification, and this time he had no advantage in that department.

"Working on it," Pidge hummed. He could hear her frantic typing.

Shouting erupted several corridors over. They were either coming for him, or had encountered Shiro and Hunk guarding his exit.

"Pidge."

"Okay, okay. Sorry, there are multiple signatures. I think Lance is in cell 3103. Fourth on your left."

Keith grasped his bayard, prepared to stab his way through, but a thought struck him before he could kill the door. He scraped his fingers across the Sainisin blood that dotted his armor and held it against the nearest panel.

A ding and a click. The door seemed to evaporate. Keith could make out a large trembling… _something_ within. Not Lance, but a prisoner nonetheless.

 _Goddammit_. He wouldn't be able to forgive himself…

Keith rushed along the corridor, sliding his fingers across each panel as he went. Doors vanished. Creatures moaned and muttered and some, if strong enough, shifted toward freedom. Keith forced himself not to look at them. This was the best he could do. He'd given them a chance.

And looking at them would tell him too much about what he was about to find behind the final door.

He smeared a slow trail of blood across the panel of room 3103.

The door hissed and disappeared.

Keith hesitated. All his anger and drive and determination replaced by nauseating fear at the prospect of seeing his lost teammate again.

It had been so long.

The figure inside was small and curled up and unmoving. Keith steeled himself and took a step forward. Why had he broken off from the others? Why was he doing this alone? It had seemed like the right idea at the time—it _should_ be him, it had to be him—but now he felt utterly unequipped to handle this.

"Uh… Lance?"

He took another step. The figure remained still. Keith felt his heart hammering. Were they too late?

He forced himself to close the gap, dropping to his knees next to the Cuban teen. The lights were still dimmed when he reached for the shoulder. It felt stiff and bony.

The lights came up for a brief flash and he saw a body ruined by cruelty and neglect. Lance was pale and gaunt and bruised and shivering.

Shivering. Shivering was good. Shivering meant alive. He'd take shivering.

Shiro's voice broke through the sick quiet of the room. "It's getting crowded over here Keith! Have you found him?"

Keith hesitated before lightly brushing fingers across Lance's forehead. The heat radiating off the too-pale skin was concerning.

"Keith, come in!"

"I found him," Keith said, and he was startled by how close his own voice felt. The room closed around the sound and snuffed it out. "Give me a minute."

Lance was still completely unresponsive. Keith would have to carry him.

A memory slammed into him so hard that he almost stumbled backward.

Six months ago.

The last time he'd seen Lance.

 _"What are you_ doing!? _Let's go!" Keith panted, hearing the Sainisins closing the gap. How had this all gone so horribly wrong? How had they not anticipated this?_

 _"Hang on man… something's… something's not..." Lance had stopped in the middle of the hall, a dazed look on his face. They weren't far from the other paladins. They could easily get out of this._

 _"Lance!"_

 _The brunette blinked and lifted his head. He brought a shaky hand to his throat, and that's when Keith spotted it._

 _A dart?_

 _"Not cool…" Lance's legs shook before he fell to the floor. Keith was at his side a second later, smacking the taller boy's cheek to illicit any response._

 _"Lance—_ dammit _—we need to go! Come on, just fight it!"_

 _A Sainisin appeared at the end of the corridor, shouted, and approached. A weapon was held in its lower set of arms and Keith assumed it held another dart with his name on it. Keith looked down at his teammate and, sure, yeah, his_ friend _, who was fighting to remain conscious and losing pretty badly. He didn't have time to think about his next move._

 _Keith grabbed Lance under his arms, hefting him over his shoulder. The other wasn't particularly heavy on his own, despite his height, but the paladin armor was a weighty hindrance, and the gangly brunette had entirely too much leg. Keith grunted and took off as best he good. He only had to make it back to the others. It wasn't far._

 _Not far. He could see daylight ahead._

 _"Nngg—_ Keith! _"_

 _A sudden heavy jerking against his shoulder pushed him sideways and Keith slammed into the wall and then backward onto floor. He saw stars as his head collided with metal._

 _"Lance, what the hell!?"_

 _He scrambled to his feet to give the obviously-still-conscious Lance the glaring of a lifetime, but stopped short, breath hitching. The blue paladin was convulsing on the ground, limbs shaking and twisting next to a puddle of vomit. Keith swore and launched forward, turning Lance onto his side._

 _Something flew past his ear, close enough to graze it._

 _The Sainisins were 20 feet away, dart guns firing._

 _Keith ducked, grabbing Lance's ankles. He was co close. He just had to get to the others… it wasn't far. Not far…_

 _He tried to get Lance back onto his shoulder while simultaneously dodging darts. A second hit Lance in the leg and he felt another ping against the armor on his shoulder. He threw up an arm and a dart deflected back toward his face. He grimaced at the stab of pain and lurched away. Had it got him? Was he going to pass out and have a seizure now too? Shit—Lance—_

 _Their would-be hosts had closed the gap and now had their hands on the brunette. Keith shouted. He didn't have his bayard—this was a diplomatic mission. No one was supposed to be harmed. This was a mission of_ peace!

 _"Leave him alone! You don't have to do this!"_

 _Keith felt a strange dizzy rush hit him. The world was starting to blur. No, no, no, no—_

 _He had to make it to the others. He'd make it back and then… then they'd come for Lance._

 _Keith struggled to his feet while he still could, and used whatever adrenaline he had left to run full-speed down the exit ramp and into the woods._

Keith took a shuddering breath. The lights dimmed.

When they came up again, he pulled Lance toward him. The brunette winced but remained unconscious. Keith prepared to heft his friend over his shoulder, but stopped himself once he had Lance gripped under the arms. Instead, he moved one hand behind the blue paladin's back and the other under the too-long legs and stood, lifting him bridal style.

This time Lance's unconscious body was no burden at all.

"We're coming, Shiro. Be ready to leave."

He set off at a run, half-listening to Pidge's commands as she set him on an alternate route back to the others. He looked down at the broken young man in his arms.

"It's not far, Lance. We're almost there. I've got you."


	4. Error

**4\. ERROR**

"What is that!?"

Hunk was on his feet, slamming fists against the cryo-pod. Keith had barely made it down the hall outside the infirmary when he'd heard the shouting and nearly twisted his ankle in his haste to rush back inside.

Coran and Shiro had just ordered them all to bed after hours of both prepping Lance for the pod and watching his battered body floating there, looking almost too far-gone for the Altean healing tech to possibly do any good. They'd had to pry themselves away, knowing that it would be days before Lance would emerge and there was nothing more to be done.

Except that's not at all how it had gone.

The pod was emitting a piercing alarm they'd never heard before. Hunk and Coran had still been in the room, and Keith joined them a second later.

"Why is it doing that? Why's it making that noise? Coran what's happening!?" Hunk's voice was rising in pitch with each question.

"Just a tick!" Coran desperately typed out a string of queries and commands on the pod's control panel. "Something's just gone a bit wrong."

"You think?" Keith blurted, pulling himself out of the doorway.

Inside the pod, Lance's face was scrunched up in pain. His wasted arms were curled inward in some feeble attempt at protection from whatever was harming him.

Pidge, Shiro, and Allura all arrived next, eyes wide and panicked.

"Coran, what's happened?"

Allura, now dressed in her nightclothes, glided over to the ginger-haired man, eyes poring over the pod's read-outs. She gasped and brought a hand to her mouth.

Coran continued to type. "Someone better get ready to catch him!"

Keith took a step forward but Hunk had already positioned himself in front of the pod. He felt the briefest pang of irritation but stifled it down. He wanted to help. He needed to make amends.

The pod hissed and opened and Lance released a small whimper as he fell forward into his best friend's waiting arms. Hunk caught him easily, the frail body dwarfed in his hold. He turned to Coran who motioned to the bed they'd been treating Lance in not an hour or two earlier.

Aside from showing signs of pain, Lance was still unresponsive. He hadn't yet regained consciousness since they'd found him. The wounds they'd bandaged were bleeding again and the flush on the Cuban's cheeks emphasized how strongly his fever still raged.

"We'll need some more bandages and healing cream," Coran sighed, still not quite done with his typing. "Allura?"

The princess stirred from her trance, having been staring teary-eyed at the brutalized human.

"Yes, of course. I'll be back in two doboshes."

"Coran?" Shiro had stepped up next the pod.

The mustachioed man sighed, shoulders slumping. "It's not good, Shiro."

Keith's heart began to hammer. "What? Coran, what happened?"

"It would appear the Sainisins wanted to assure that none of their test subjects could live long outside of their facilities. They built in a fail-safe—something injected into the bloodstream I imagine—that conflicted with the pod's programming."

"Like a computer virus?" Pidge piped up. She'd placed herself next to the bed, hand outstretched like she wanted to touch Lance's hand, but fearful of hurting him further.

"Hmm, in a sense, yes! A clever way of putting it, Number Five." Coran finally stepped away from the panel. "It was trying to rewrite the pod's code. Trying to, ah…"

Coran frowned, turning saddened eyes on the boy he'd grown so fond of.

Keith joined the others at Lance's bedside. "It was trying to kill him, wasn't it?"

The Altean nodded. "The pod fought back and thank goodness we were all still close by. Unfortunately, we won't be able to depend on any of our technology to heal Lance."

The others could only share frightened expressions. They'd all been present when Lance was peeled out of his tattered clothing. They'd all seen the seeping wounds, broken bones, missing toes, and countless blemishes and scars. They'd witnessed the utterly famished state of his body. They'd all felt the sickening heat coming off his skin.

Allura returned with fresh medical supplies, wordlessly placing them on the table next to Lance's bed.

Coran took a breath and reached for a roll of bandages.

"It's up to us now."


	5. Sickness

**5\. SICKNESS**

Three days had passed. No grueling mile, no slicing blades, no bright lights or chemical sprays or poking or prodding of any kind for three whole quintants.

Well, maybe. He had no way of judging the passage of time outside of when he received his meals, and he could only hypothesize on a once-daily meal routine based on the horrible gnawing pain in his stomach. Maybe three days. Maybe longer.

Lance might have had a reason to feel suspicious if he could feel much of anything at all.

He'd spent far too long in the sterile silence. Not even his own thoughts could muster up the strength to bother him anymore. He felt completely on edge and entirely dazed and a million miles away while being simultaneously everywhere at once. He was an empty shell fit to explode and every now and then a sharp laugh or a sob would escape, startling him into a quivering heap on the floor.

He would occasionally hallucinate, but even those images had trouble maintaining any shape or colour amidst the blankness of the cell. They would soundlessly speak to him, or shout at him, or laugh at him. He couldn't glean their motives or even settle on exactly who they were supposed to be. When would he have had occasion to meet people? He'd never been anywhere but this cell for as long as he can remember.

When the door vanished, Lance was staring ahead, blue eyes dead and vacant. He didn't react when two arms grabbed him by his collar and dragged him out into the hallway.

He became aware of himself only when he saw the big lab up ahead. His legs had been moving of their own accord, but now he brought them to a halt. His lethargic pulse picked up all at once.

"No, no, no, please no—"

Two sets of huge hands tightened their grip on his slim shoulders and pushed him forward, even as his heels dug in and slid unwilling across the slick floor.

Lance's eyes darted from his captors to the coloured lights above. The walls were dotted with further doors and panels. The floors were lined with grates. Ahead of him he could hear the low humming and hissing that was the Sainisin language. The doors to the lab opened with a heavy swish.

After three days of non-existence, this amount of stimulation was almost too much to handle. His head instantly began to pound.

Too many hands lifted him onto a cold metal table. He was once again surrounded by the tall, slender, black-eyed aliens. They talked to one another as they followed their usual routine of poking Lance with every kind of strange instrument, from the benign rounded stick (he guessed for measuring body temperature) to the dreaded sucking needle that took what always looked like too much blood, much too fast. Even though this had become his life, Lance still whimpered and jerked at each intrusion. Whatever was planned for that day would not be good, and he had no reason to take any of it in stride.

"Please don't, _please_ —"

Lance's wrists and ankles were being secured to the table, little care being given to how tightly the straps were pulled. The blue paladin felt a wash of vertigo as the table flipped upright, leaving him in more of a standing position.

That was different.

The dizziness took a moment to subside, and when he focused again, Lance saw a Sainisin approaching him in a hovering chair. Confusion hit him at first, until the alien moved closer.

It was being pushed by others, who were all either wearing face masks or full body suits, and it was clear when Lance got a better look at the thing that this Sainisin was not in the best of conditions. It was pale and littered with cuts and raised rashes, its large eyes sunken in and though the species was naturally bony, this one looked especially hollowed out. It was shaking and rasping with every breath. Something seeped from its cadaverous mouth and nose.

And it was coming closer.

Lance strained against the straps, shifting his head to one side.

"Please! I'm not a _rat!_ Don't do this! Don't—"

He felt a trembling, clammy hand take hold of his own fingers and couldn't fight the urge to look back.

The sickly alien was inches from his face.

Lance screamed and slammed his head back, but the restraints held firm. One of the scientists took a probing instrument and touched it to the secretions on the ill Sainisin's face. Lance shut his eyes and sobbed, knowing exactly what they planned to do with it.

He tried to spit and bite and sob and even forcefully blow snot from his nose, but Lance wasn't an idiot. He knew once they'd touched the infected probe to every opening on his face that it was too late.

The journey back to his cell was a blur of thrashing fear and panic.

Nothing happened for another two days.

But he'd found it easy to imagine something was happening. Each time he felt too cold he could only assume it was the illness, and not that his cell was always freezing. With every wave of dizziness, he was sure the sickness had taken him, and not just that he was starving. Every little cough or sniffle was absolutely the _plague_ and not due to intermittent crying.

But then he'd woken in the middle of the night on the second day, face drenched with sweat, chest tight, and a crawling itch so overwhelming that he was sure he was covered with ten-thousand biting fleas.

He'd scratched his arms and legs to ribbons by the morning, and that was about when the cough settled into his chest.

He spent the next day hacking up dark phlegm and eventually blood. Several times he vomited from the strain of coughing and several more from the oppressive blanket of churning nausea. He trembled from fever and scratched filthy nails deeper into his open wounds. One eye crusted itself closed from whatever was endlessly dripping from the goddamn holes in his face.

He cursed and cried and kicked himself further and further back into one corner of the cell to escape the foul little puddles of sick and blood and who knew what else. He felt soiled and hot and the smell was becoming almost as bad as the illness responsible for it.

They'd brought him food and water at some point. Lance could see the little bowl and cup by the door. But he had no strength to move and although he desperately craved the water, his stomach churned at the thought of putting anything into it.

He knew two days after succumbing to the sickness that he was severely dehydrated and probably not long for the world.

Good. Fine. _Was kind of a shit world anyway._

"Lance?"

The brunette jumped, peeling one frantic eye open. Something yellow was coming in and out of focus in front of him. He didn't know anyone yellow. False alarm. _Goodnight._

Lance felt his heavy eyelid close again and fell into another fit of wet rasping coughs.

"C'mon Lance. Look at me, man."

Lance whined. It was too much effort to look.

"It's Hunk. You with me?"

 _Hunk?_

Lance looked up again. This time the blurry figure was more recognizable. Hunk. Hunk was someone… someone important. More important than mad scientists. Hunk was safe.

"You've got a fever. Can you drink something for me?"

Something about this felt familiar. Lance sighed and buried his head in his dorm room pillow.

No… he didn't have a pillow here. He was in a cold empty cell. What was happening?

 _Hunk?_

"Come on dude, you're just gonna get worse if you don't stay hydrated."

Lance's head throbbed and he shut his eyes tight. _Hunk._ Hunk was his friend. Hunk was his _best_ friend. He had other friends. _Shit—shit, where were they?_

He pulled his head out from under his arm and blearily stared at the hallucination; a memory of when he was sick with the flu at the Garrison. Hunk had watched over him that whole weekend.

"Hunk…"

His voice was barely a whisper and his throat felt like it was filled with gravel and glass. He tried to lift his head but it felt like lifting a truck. Memory-Hunk smiled and helped him to sit up.

"You'll breathe easier if you're propped up."

Lance nodded, licking his cracked and bleeding lips. He was sure he could feel the stack of pillows behind him. Certain he could make out his posters and shelves and a desk covered in dirty clothes and discarded notes. He was convinced he heard the low din of a television on in their main room.

"Here. Drink."

Lance reached out and took the little cup of water. It tasted stale but it was still glorious. He had to fight not to gulp it down.

"Slowly."

Hunk took the cup back—the cup in his cell dropping to the floor and rolling away.

"Think you can sleep?"

Lance nodded, already beginning to lose consciousness. He felt Hunk's cool heavy fingers brush through his sweat-dampened hair.

"Th-thanks buddy…" Lance muttered, and the memory slowly melded into his dreams.

The Sainisin, clad in full-body protection, lifted the feverish subject from the floor and deposited him onto a waiting gurney.

 _"Is it alive?"_ another asked.

 _"Just. The creature does appear to be fighting the blight. We may actually derive a treatment from this."_

 _"Excellent."_

They began wheeling the sickly human back to the lab.

 _"_ _Defender of the universe, indeed."_

* * *

 ** _Hope you've enjoyed the first 5 chapters! I'm using a random word generator to come up with the prompts and am currently working off of a 15-word list. If you're liking this at all and would like to cast a vote for the next prompt, do let me know if any of these tickle your fancy:_**

 _ **Anniversary**_  
 _ **Hold**_  
 _ **Acceptance**_  
 _ **Deficiency**_  
 _ **Critical**_  
 _ **Hide**_  
 _ **Meaning**_  
 _ **Anger**_  
 _ **Shame**_  
 _ **Catch**_  
 _ **Resign**_  
 _ **Delicate**_  
 _ **Try**_  
 _ **Concern**_  
 _ **Atmosphere**_


	6. Provoke

**6\. PROVOKE**

Everyone had agreed not to make a big deal out of Lance's return to the training room. The blue paladin didn't want that kind of attention. He didn't want special treatment or way-to-gos or—god forbid—any amount of pity. He wanted to pretend that things were like they'd always been, and as much as Keith wasn't sure that was the best approach, he couldn't fault Lance for ignoring his feelings or hiding his pain when he himself was the king of repression.

That said, as soon as Lance walked into the room, Keith knew he wouldn't be able to adhere to this plan of faking it.

There was no ignoring the way Lance walked now. What used to be confident, open, and cheery was now awkward and reserved. He favoured the foot with the missing toes and limped on the leg that had been shattered. He held his arms across his front as a sort of shield and his eyes were usually cast downward.

And though he smiled at the team as he stepped closer, Keith noted it didn't meet his eyes, which were still sharing space with traumatic memories he hadn't yet confronted. The teeth weren't real either… Coran had done an amazing job on replacements but they were still just as fake as the grin.

"You all ready to get your asses whooped?" Lance taunted.

Hunk heaved a sarcastic sigh, "That's all training ever is and I've made my peace with it."

"I dunno," Pidge cracked her knuckles, "I think I can actually take him now."

It was all meant to be light-hearted and Keith could see Lance appreciated the effort, but he also saw the second of doubt at Pidge's comment. He knew the self-loathing Lance nurtured long before he was kidnapped had grown out of control during his recovery, which was still far from over.

"Big words, Pidgeon," Lance shot back, bending to retrieve a pair of gloves.

Keith saw the lanky boy wince; some part of him still twinging with certain movements. He knew that as much as Lance assured them he was ready to rejoin training, he was still hiding a considerable amount of pain. Keith had seen the medical readouts. He knew the extent of the damage done to Lance, inside and out. He knew that a lot of it would never heal completely.

"All right, we're going to take it slow to start. We all need to get back into a rhythm," Shiro stated. "Start with ten laps. If you feel you need to take a break, then take it."

It was obvious the footnote was meant for Lance, but no one said anything. Keith frowned, knowing ten laps was an easy warm-up, typically, but that it was going to be a huge ask for Lance. Treating him like any other paladin was one thing, but this was just setting him up for failure.

The first three laps seemed okay. Lance was stiff in his movements but his endurance was still excellent, all things considered. He had to guess it was a result of the mile tests, which he'd learned—from the few rare instances that Lance had opened up about it—had turned into two and three mile tests toward the end.

Knowing the state he'd been in, Keith felt sick trying to imagine Lance slogging through jungles and deserts a few times a week.

By the fifth lap, Lance was starting to slow, and his face was going pale. Keith knew Lance wouldn't allow himself to be the first to stop. Not when he felt he had so much to prove. He would end up fainting and hurting himself and Keith couldn't—he _couldn't_ let Lance get hurt again.

Keith hadn't so much as worked up a sweat but he forced an exaggerated sigh and came to a sudden halt. Pidge and Hunk eyed him strangely.

"Harder than usual," Keith lied with a shrug. "Guess I didn't… sleep well last night or… something."

Lance stopped next, needing to walk for a few minutes the fight the wooziness. When he turned back around to look at Keith, there was a strange hardened look in his eyes.

Keith averted his gaze.

"All right, good job guys," Shiro said, finishing the tenth lap with Pidge close behind and Hunk still finishing shortly after despite some huffing and puffing. Lance frowned from where he was leaning against the wall and stared at his feet.

"We'll do some one-on-one sparring next."

Keith somehow managed to spar and keep an eye on Lance at the same time. Lance and Hunk had been paired first, and though the smaller managed to land a few hits, it didn't take long before he was knocked to the ground.

"Sorry man," Hunk said, offering his friend a hand up and trying to hide his obvious guilt.

Lance smiled and shook his head. "Don't sweat it."

Shiro and Lance sparred next. Shiro was clearly holding back, but at the same time still giving more than it was clear Lance could handle. His movements were strained and stiff and obviously hindered by pain and exhaustion, but his eyes were fierce and he pushed himself so hard to dodge and strike that it wasn't Shiro who brought him down, but his own body finally giving out on him.

"I'm fine," Lance sighed, trembling, getting back to his feet. He'd only been unconscious for a few seconds, but that was more than enough to shake the others free of their pretending.

"I think that's enough for today," Shiro said, giving Lance's tense shoulder a squeeze.

Lance shook his head. "I said I'm fine. C'mon, give me a chance. Keith!"

Keith started at the sudden attention. Lance was advancing on him.

"You and me next, let's go."

Keith eyed Shiro, who was looking equally at a loss. Pidge was shaking her head and Hunk looked ready to rush forward and drag Lance bodily from the training room.

"You're tired Lance. It's fine. We'll try again tomorrow," Keith offered, unable to lock his gaze with those suddenly furious blue eyes.

"Speak for yourself, Mullet. Come on."

Keith sighed. Pidge shook her head a little more furiously.

"Fine."

Keith raised his hands as Lance swung first. To everyone's surprise, Lance's fist landed with little resistance from Keith. This only seemed to anger the Cuban boy further, and he swung again, this time catching the red paladin on the shoulder.

"You're not even _trying!_ " Lance shouted, once more landing on target.

Keith sighed and dodged the next blow, but couldn't bring himself to return the attack.

When he looked at Lance, all he could see, still, was the pain and the damage. The fake teeth and patchy hair and loose-fitting armor. The burn scars along his throat and the hollows of his cheeks. The wild blue eyes were surrounded by heavy purple bags and set too far back in their sockets.

"I can't—"

"What's the problem, Keith? Did you forget how to fight without any real competition around?"

Keith dodged again and Lance almost lost his footing.

"Thought you were all fire and instincts? Piss poor excuse for a red paladin if you ask me."

Shiro started to step forward. Keith continued to dodge and block. He knew Lance was trying to provoke him and it wasn't going to work.

"Jesus, _do something!_ "

"I don't want to hurt you, Lance."

Lance stepped back at that, his eyes cold and wounded. " _Hurt_ me? You think… _this_ is going to hurt me?"

Keith was actually startled by the fierceness of the next few hits.

"You think you're such a fucking hotshot that you're going to destroy me with one blow?"

Left. Dodge. Right. Dodge.

"The ego on this guy!"

Keith wasn't going to give in. Lance's attempts were becoming more and more of an effort. The brunette stepped back, panting, rallying whatever meagre strength was still hanging on. He leaned back to prepare his next swing.

"Maybe you shouldn't have left me on that ship if you didn't want to _hurt_ me!"

Lance was abruptly stopped by Keith grabbing his forearms. With very little effort, the raven-haired boy forced him to the ground. Lance's eyes were blurring with tears as he caught Keith's dark glare. He winced, waiting for the backlash he knew perfectly well he was not equipped to defend against.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

Keith adjusted his iron grip up onto the taller boy's shoulders. His pathetic bony shoulders. Why did he think he could handle this? Why did he think he still belonged here? He was a useless broken, bawling, pointless—

Lance was thrust forward and felt a sharp impact against his chest.

He felt Keith's arms take hold of his back and start to squeeze the life out of him.

He heard Keith choke on a sob.

Everyone froze. Lance slumped forward, eyes wide with alarm, every ounce of fight now gone. An eternity passed while he stared ahead and his rival cried into his chest.

"All right," Lance finally muttered. "We'll call it a draw…"

Keith's messy tears were broken by a laugh.


End file.
